


Jesus's Eyes

by Jinxgirl



Category: Saving Grace (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What has made Grace into the woman she is today? Warning: Descriptions of childhood sexual abuse  implied, not explicitly described . May be triggering. 9-12-year-old Grace & Father Murphy's interactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jesus's Eyes

Jesus's Eyes

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Warning: Although this story will not explicitly describe the actual act of sexually abusing a child, it is strongly implied, and the subject and "grooming" behaviors of the pedophile in this story will be described in a manner that is highly discomforting for most. This could be a possible trigger for some people. This story is rated MATURE.

Author notes: The events of this story take place when Grace was a child; throughout the series, but particularly in the last episode of season one, Grace often refers to her sexual abuse as a child by Father Murphy. These are the events of her abuse, as seen through the child Grace's eyes. None of the events of the abuse itself in this story are of my own imagination; the adult Grace described them in the series, but the way they come about may be different in my story.

Grace Hanadarko squirmed in her seat as Sister Margaret droned on, making limp gestures with her hands to illustrate her lesson as she stood before her fourth grade catechism class, eyeing them dully through thick-rimmed glasses. It was almost one, time for the lesson to end for the day, and Grace squirmed impatiently, more than ready for the time to come. The under netting of her dress was itching her legs even through her tights, and she tugged at it subtly, making a face. Why did her mother insist they get dressed up for every catechism class when they weren't even held on Sundays, and were twice a week besides?

She glanced over at her best friend, Rhetta, and crossed her eyes, letting her mouth hang open and her tongue protrude. Rhetta giggled, trying to hide the noise between her hands, and Grace grinned, letting her mouth open wider, her tongue stick our further.

Just then she heard the noises of the other children around them, preparing to take up their belongings to leave, and Grace straightened up quickly, snatching up her Bible, pencil, and other possessions as she almost leapt to her feet. She could hear rain on the roof above her, pounding down with a steady drumming staccato, but even the prospect of walking home from the church in this downpour with five of her six siblings sloshing along with her, dumping water down her back and kicking mud onto her dress and tights, wasn't enough to deter her enthusiasm. She was more than ready to leave.

"See you later, alligator!" she called to Rhetta over her shoulder before taking off down the hallway, heading for the front door. Seeing her sister Mary Frances, Grace ran to catch up to her, but a voice calling her name from behind stopped her in her tracks so that both girls turned, looking to see who was calling.

Father Patrick Murphy was walking towards them, a warm smile on his face as he approached. He was their new priest, the one who took confessions and gave communion and taught the sermons on Sundays, and who taught John, Jimmy, Joe, and Leo, Grace's older brothers, how to serve as altar boys. He was even holier than Sister Margaret and the other nuns, and he was very nice too. He had often come to eat dinner at the Hanadarko house since he had joined the parish, and Grace always tried to sit next to him if she could, though she usually felt shy in his presence. She thought that Father Murphy was handsome enough to be in the movies, and he usually had something to say about what a pretty girl she was too. Of course, he said the same thing to Grace's sisters, Mary Frances and Paige, but still, he did say it. Grace liked him a lot, and she smiled back at him as he came closer.

"Yes, Father Murphy?" she asked, and he glanced over at Mary Frances before turning his smiling attention back to Grace.

"Grace, I can use your assistance with a matter this afternoon. Mary Frances, can you tell your brothers and your mother that Grace will be staying after with me, and I'll drive her home?"

As Mary Frances replied in the affirmative, Grace could feel her smile spreading, even as she bit her cheeks on the inside, trying to contain herself. Father Murphy wanted HER to help him…Father Murphy chose HER. He must like her best, better than her sisters, better than her brothers, better than Rhetta and any of the other kids, even the older ones who were smarter and stronger and knew more about the Bible than she did. He really must like her a LOT.

"Well, come along, Grace, why don't you follow me to my office," Father Murphy said, holding out his hand to her with a continued warmth in his smile, and Grace took it with pleasure but also shyness in the gesture.

His hand was warm and large, the palm softer than her father's, and she wandered with secret glee if Mary Frances was jealous. She had every intention to brag about this to her later, and Rhetta and Paige too, maybe even to her brothers. They would all be jealous, probably, that Father Murphy picked her, that he liked her best.

In his office Father Murphy motioned for her to sit in a chair near his desk, and when Grace obeyed, he stood, heading toward the door.

"I'll be right back, Grace, make yourself comfortable."

"Okay," she said, crossing her legs again and trying to sit up very straight, to ignore her itchy dress and to look very grown-up and well-behaved, like the sort of girl he would be happy to pick to help him. As Father Murphy exited Grace sat still, wondering what it was he needed her help with anyway. A secret surprise for someone? Some kind of work in his office, or in class? Did he want her to join the children's choir or to be in a play?

As she thought she snuck glances around his office, taking in the rather ordinary bookshelves, papers, lamp, desk, and the crucifix and painting of a solemn Jesus on his walls. Her eyes repeatedly returned to the narrow door of the closet near his desk. Maybe the surprise was in there. Maybe it was for her.

It seemed to take forever for Father Murphy to return, and Grace was unable to hold her perfect pose for long. She squirmed and shifted and adjusted her skirt, pushed strands of blonde hair back from her face, and sighed. She could no longer hear children's voices or the sounds of footsteps running past and supposed they had all gone home. Were all the nuns gone too? Father Murphy hadn't gone, had he? Had he forgotten her?

She listened to the rain on the roof, trying not to worry, and finally the office door opened.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, Grace," Father Murphy said apologetically as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. "I have been looking all over for some important papers of mine that I'll need later, and I just now realized I left them in my car."

He laughed lightly, shook his head, and went to sit at his desk, exhaling. "I guess I'll just get them later. It's raining so hard now, and I've kept you waiting long enough…"

"I'll get them for you," Grace said quickly, anxious to be helpful, to not give him any cause to decide to simply take her home, or to be too distracted by his wishing for his papers to tell her what he wanted her to help with. "I don't mind getting wet. I'll do it, Father Murphy."

"Would you? That would be very kind of you, Grace, but you don't have to-"

"No, I don't mind, I'll do it," Grace insisted, standing hurriedly. "Where are your keys, Father Murphy? Where are the papers inside your car?"

"I believe they're in the glovebox…and I have the keys right here," he replied, fishing them out of his pocket and handing them to her with a bright smile, his eyes twinkling with a pleasure and approval that made Grace flush, warm and happy inside at his appreciation. "Thank you very much, Grace."

Grace almost ran outside, eager to retrieve the papers and return to Father Murphy, to once more have his attention and approval focused upon her, to be told of the special project or help he needed her for. He had never before been alone with her, or even spoken to her without her parents or siblings there too, and as little as their actual contact had been so far, she was very much enjoying it. With six brothers and sisters, it was very rare that she received special attention or acknowledgement from any adult, and in her opinion, it was time someone realized she was a good girl to give it to.

The downpour outside was torrential, and by the time Grace had reached the car and struggled to open it, she was completely drenched, soaked through even to her underwear. She stuffed the papers into a plastic bag on the floorboard in an attempt to protect them from the rain and ran as fast as she could back towards the church, almost falling as she burst into the hallway through the side door, her Mary Janes slicking on the wet tile surface. Her dress dripped steadily as she walked towards Father Murphy's office, leaving pools of water in her wake, and as she clutched the bag- protected papers in one hand, Grace's hair tangled, sodden and heavy, down her back and into her eyes.

In Father Murphy's doorway to his office, she paused, suddenly self-conscious to burst into his nice, clean, dry office so messily, getting mud and water everywhere. She would ruin his chair sitting in it, and her hair must look awful. What should she do?

Nervously Grace combed her fingers through her snarled hair, trying to tame it, and to wring out her skirt; she was still trying in vain to fix herself when Father Murphy opened the door, looking down at her with concern creasing his brow.

"Why, Grace, you're shivering. You'll catch pneumonia in those wet clothes. Here, quickly, take them off and give them to me, I'll put them somewhere to dry and get you a blanket," he said quickly, and he opened up his closet door, emerging with a blue wool spread in his arms. Grace looked towards the closet curiously, seeing that a large mirror was bolted to the inside of the door, but other than that there seemed to be only black robes like he wore most of the time when she saw him.

When Father Murphy began to dry her hair with the blanket, Grace stood very still, enjoying his gentle touch and the care he took to not hurt her or further entangle it. He knelt behind her, standing very close, and she half closed her eyes, shivering when his breath warmed the back of her neck.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes, Grace," he repeated, taking the blankets from her hair, to Grace's disappointment, and slowly standing, though still remaining very close to her. "We wouldn't want you to get sick, would we?"

He sounded concerned, casual, but Grace could feel his eyes carefully on her even while not facing him, and she hesitated. She understood that he didn't want her to get sick…but to take off her clothes in front of him? In front of Father Murphy? She didn't even take off her clothes in front of her dad or brothers. Men weren't supposed to see her without her clothes on.

But Father Murphy wasn't a normal man. He was a priest, a holy man, so it must be okay. Besides, Grace couldn't say no to a priest. What would God think of that?

Still, she was embarrassed as she slowly took off her shoes and began to slide off her torn tights, as much because Father Murphy was someone she liked and admired as because he was a man. She didn't know what he'd think about her skinny legs and scraped knees, her mosquito-bitten ankles and how she, unlike Mary Frances, didn't even have the beginnings of breasts yet. He'd probably think she was ugly, even if he didn't say so.

She hesitated when she had removed her dress and stood shivering, self-conscious, in her panties, as Father Murphy carefully folded her soaked clothes into the bag that had held his papers, but heedless of her blushing and averted eyes, he urged her to remove those as well.

"Underthings too, Grace, they all need to dry. I'll give you other clothes to wear home if those aren't dry in time."

With slightly shaking hands Grace slipped them off and handed them to him, cheeks stained bright red, heart pounding. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest, holding her legs pressed tightly together, and did not meet Father Murphy's eyes, trying to make herself smaller and less visible before him. She hoped her clothes would dry soon. Did they have a clothes dryer at church?

But Father Murphy simply took her clothes and folded them with great precision and care, even her underwear, and placed them in the bag that she had put his papers in. Setting the papers on his desk and thanking her with a smile, his brow creased and his smile disappeared when Grace did not meet his eyes.

"Why Grace, are you embarrassed?"

When Grace's blush deepened and she could form no answers, mortified to have his attention directed at not only her unclad body but also her humiliation at his seeing it, Father Murphy took a step closer, continuing to frown.

"Well this is just not right to feel that way, Grace. There is no reason for it…no reason at all. No one should be ashamed about the body God gave them, or embarrassed either. The body is a gift, an amazing gift that you should take pride in," he said quietly.

Grace licked her lips unconsciously, her eyes darting to meet his. She meant to speak, but when she opened her mouth, no words would come.

Watching her, Father Murphy smiled gently, then reached out to lightly take her hand into his. "Come here, Grace. Let me show you."

As Grace slid her hand into his, letting him lead her with continued bashfulness, he opened his closet door, displaying again the mirror on its inside door. Gently maneuvering her to stand before it, he lifted her chin with one finger, making her look at herself. His other hand rested lightly on her shoulder, its fingers caressing its skin. Grace shivered; his touch felt good, if strange, and she looked at herself in the mirror, even as the knots in her stomach bunched tighter, her heart not slowing in its beats.

"Look at yourself, Grace," he said softly, as one hand stroked over her shoulder, down her back, and up her side. "You are beautiful. Your body is a gift, a gift from God to you…and to others. You are a gift to me, did you know that?"

A gift? Grace stared at herself, trying to understand, trying to see. She didn't look any different than usual…no prettier, no smarter, no more special. What sort of gift…was she really that special, did Father Murphy really think she was that special?

"You are special," he murmured, echoing her thoughts, and he was breathing faster now, standing closer. "This is why I want you to start seeing me, Grace. To learn about your specialness, about your gifts that God has given you."

He kissed her cheek, his beard scratchy against Grace's smooth skin…and then, he kissed her lips. It was quick, a firm peck more than anything, but Grace's mind swam with confusion all the same. She liked the thought of being special and beautiful, of being someone's gift, Father Murphy's gift. But even so, even though her embarrassment was fading, she wasn't sure she liked being naked, she wasn't sure she liked being kissed.

Plus, she was cold.

She said so as Father Murphy's face moved close to hers again, as though he were prepared to kiss her for a second time. His face stiffened, a strange startled look coming into his eyes for a moment that made Grace guilty, worried that he might be angry, that he might think her rude. But instead he dried her off with the same blanket he had used to dry her hair, retrieving some clothes from another room about her size for her to wear home.

The entire time she was redressing herself, Grace was aware not only of the eyes of Father Murphy on her, but also those of Jesus, from the pictures hanging on the wall. Though they were just paintings, he seemed to be frowning down at her, judging her in a way she could not understand.

(to be continued)

Chapter 2: Chapter 2  
Grace had hoped that her family would have few questions about her time with Father Murphy, and for the most part she had her wish granted. Her brothers were fighting like usual when she came through the front door, and her little sister Paige was somehow in the middle of it, bawling loudly, and her mother was yelling over them all, trying to break them up. No one noticed Grace slipping into the room she shared with Paige and Mary Frances, intending to change into play clothes of her own before anyone noticed her in clothes that weren't hers.

It wasn't that Father Murphy had told her to keep their meeting private, or any future meetings either. It was just that Grace instinctively knew and felt that they should. It wasn't that what they were doing was wrong- of course it wasn't, because Father Murphy wouldn't do it if it was. It just felt strange, and Grace wouldn't know what to say or how to describe it anyway. It was better to just not mention it.

Mary Frances was already in their room when Grace came in, lying on her stomach on their queen-sized bed with a book. As Grace went to her dresser drawer of their shared bureau to take out her change of clothes, Mary Frances sat up and raised an eyebrow at her.

"What did Father Murphy want you to help with, Grace?"

"Oh," Grace replied quickly, careful to keep her face averted as she dug out a pair of jeans and a shirt, "some papers and stuff…finding stuff. Putting it up for him."

Mary Frances looked skeptical, her mouth quirking. "Why did he want you to do that? Anyone could do that. How come he won't?"

"I don't know," Grace muttered, then added quickly, "he wants to give me special lessons on stuff."

Both of Mary Frances's eyebrow rose then, and envy that she quickly tried to suppress flickered in her eyes. At twelve years old, three years older than Grace, and with a reputation among their friends and family for being the "smart one" of the Hanadarko girls, she would not expect it to be one of her sisters chosen to receive special lessons from anyone, especially Grace.

"Oh," she said, then, in an a tone attempting casualness, "Why? On what?"

"I don't know…it's a surprise. A secret," Grace said quickly, then in a more fierce tone, "so don't tell, you'll ruin it."

Still skeptical but trying to appear nonchalant, Mary Frances shrugged. "Whatever…hey, why aren't you wearing your own clothes? Whose clothes are those?"

Grace kept her face turned down toward the dresser, striving to keep her voice casual as she replied. She knew Mary Frances was trying to get a look at her expression. Why couldn't she just leave her alone?

"I got wet getting some stuff for Farther Murphy out of his car, so he gave me some clothes form the lost and found to change into. So I wouldn't mess up his office and stuff, or get a cold."

She glanced at her older sister quickly, and seeing that Mary Frances was still watching her, tensed, somewhat embarrassed.

"Can't you look away while I get dressed?"

"What?" Mary Frances blinked, thrown by this sudden indication of modesty.

What with the fact that the three sisters had shared a room all of their lives, it was an inevitable and unremarkable fact that they often saw each other undressing, and none had ever indicated any discomfort with it before. Especially Grace, who occasionally still ran around the house shirtless until their mother yelled at her to get dressed or one of their brothers gave her titty twisters.

"Since when do you care, it's not like you've got anything worth keeping private," she smirked, her eyes dropping to Grace's still childishly flat chest.

But the thought of another person looking at her body, even just her older sister, made Grace's stomach flip sickeningly. Without another word, she took her change of clothes with her into the closet. It was crowded and dark in there, and undoubtedly Mary Frances was staring, stunned, unable to reconcile her strange new attitude. But in the closet no one could see her body, and that felt safer. Better.

Maybe she was beautiful…maybe she was a gift. Father Murphy's gift. But then why did it all feel so strange?

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Grace couldn't pray, that night, as she lay in bed between her sisters. She entwined her fingers under her chin, just as they did, and tried to form the words in her head, if not on her lips, but they wouldn't come. She saw Paige's lips moving and had no doubt that Mary Frances had flown through her prayers as well, but Grace's thoughts were heavy and thick, and no words came.

Everything seemed distant and strange as she closed her eyes, trying to drift to sleep. Even in the darkness and stillness of their room faint sounds echoed in her ears, shadows flickered behind closed lids. She could hear her sisters' deep breaths, their every slight movement beside her, but she found little comfort in their presences. Without quite knowing why, Grace was afraid.

She pictured the eyes of Jesus, looking down on her from Heaven, and wondered what he saw, what he thought about her. Maybe she couldn't pray because he wouldn't let her, because she was so bad he didn't want to hear what she had to say.

When she dreamed it was of closed doors, and flashing lights, grasping hands, and shiny mirrors, and when she awakened, her body was slick with cold sweat.

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The next time Grace saw Father Murphy, he had been invited to their house for dinner. All the Hanadarko children had been dressed in their best and inspected for cleanliness, sternly instructed as always to be on their best behavior. Grace was nervous, wondering if somehow her mother or father, or any of her siblings would see her near Father Murphy and somehow just know about their lesson from a few days ago, or if Father Murphy would mention it to her parents himself. The thought was embarrassing, and she did all she could to stay near him, to make sure she heard and was aware when it happened.

But it didn't. Father Murphy smiled at her and acted as he always did, with kind gentleness and patience towards all the Hanadarko children. But he did gesture for Grace to take the seat next to his, often addressing comments and questions to her throughout the evening…and he did slp a candy bar into her hand as he was heading out the front door, telling her in a low voice that after her next catechism class, she was to see him again.

And she did. From then on, after every catechism each week and after every Sunday school as well, Grace reported to Father Murphy for his lessons. They rarely lasted more than hour, so she was rarely questioned or missed by her family when he dropped her home again. Even Mary Frances had accepted Grace's lessons as routine, and 6-year-old Paige expressed no interest.

For the first few times, they were simple enough. Father Murphy did not ask Grace to take off her clothes; perhaps he realized that had been a rather fast move on his part. Instead he had her sit on his lap as he talked to her about school and her family, about God and Jesus and their plans for her life, about her future and her feelings. He talked to her about the body and how God made it, what it was intended to do. Then he would end the lesson with lightly stroking his hands over her- her head and hair, her shoulders and back, her arms and stomach and legs- to show her what the body should feel, how God designed it to feel. He did not ask her to touch him then.

It was during the fourth session that he slid his hands between her legs, teaching her how God designed those parts to feel too. By the sixth lesson he began teaching her how God designed the man's body. And by lesson eight, he was asking her to undress, all the while assuring her that her body was beautiful, miraculous, a God-designed gift made especially for him.

It felt wrong. It felt shameful and secretive, dirty and strange…but it was exciting too, to be spoken to and touched in this way, to be chosen, to be special. Grace liked being given gifts and attention, being spoken to with gentle respect and even reverence. She liked thinking of herself as special and beautiful, as being different than other girls. As being better. And sometimes, Father Murphy's touch felt good.

But at night she tossed and turned with nightmares; in the day her insides churned with anxiety. And even as she smiled on the outside, when Grace lay in bed at night, she still found herself unable to pray.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3  
On the day after her eleventh birthday, Father Murphy asked Grace, as usual, to stay for a lesson after Sunday school. Because her birthday had just passed, she was expectant, even anticipant. Last year, when she had turned ten, Father Murphy had given her a crucifix pen and a little St Christopher medal. She wore the medal at all times now, under her shirt. As she walked down the hall towards his office, the skirt of her dress swishing around her legs, Grace smiled to herself, wondering what surprise awaited her.

"Come in, Grace," Father Murphy called as she paused in his doorway, and she stood up, coming out from behind his desk to greet her with his usual hug and kiss, smiling down at her as he briefly cupped her cheek in his hand. Grace soaked up his light, affectionate touch; already her heart beat faster. "Happy birthday to an eleven-year-old beauty…you are fast becoming the sort of girl God always intended for you to be."

He kissed her again, and Grace endured this, almost counting the seconds until he pulled away, taking her by the hand and leading her back to his desk. Opening the middle drawer at the side, he extracted a leather bound Bible with her name, Grace Hanadarko, engraved on the cover. Handing this to her, he opened it to the first page, gesturing for her to read. There was an inscription in cursive that Grace had to struggle to read.

"Dear Grace, May you always remember the gifts God has given you, and may His word instruct you in their use. Father Murphy."

Grace smiled, verbalizing her thanks, but secretly disappointment pressed against her chest. A Bible? She already had a Bible. How exciting a gift was that, even if it did have her name on it and Father Murphy's words inside? What's more, he hadn't said "love" when he signed his name.

"I have some other gifts for you as well," Father Murphy stated, and Grace's straightened, quickly growing more animated. Surely these other gifts would be more interesting.

Handing her what looked like a medium-sized box for jewelry from the same drawer, Father Murphy watched Grace expectantly; when she lifted the top, a red beaded rosary with delicate small crystals was coiled inside. Grace fingered it, appreciating its beauty; this was more interesting.

"Thank you, Father Murphy," she looked up at him, and his smile widened.

"You are quite welcome, Grace…and there is one more gift for you."

He paused, searching her face, and Grace waited for him to pull another item from his desk drawer. But it wasn't a material object that Father Murphy seemed to have in mind. Instead he took Grace's hands in his, squeezing gently as he looked down at her, into her eyes.

"For two years now, Grace, we've been having lessons about you and your gifts, about all you have to offer. We've practiced, but I've never shown you the full extent of your gifts, all that you could give if you are faithful and generous to yourself. Today, as you are now eleven years old, it's time you learned."

As ambiguously as he worded this, and as much as Grace wished to deny her knowledge, she knew what Father Murphy was talking about. She was nearly in sixth grade now, had a sister in high school, almost, and four brothers as well. She knew about sex. She knew that this was Father Murphy's way of asking for it from her, and that it was what he intended to take from her.

She knew by now that what she did with Father Murphy, and what he did to her, was wrong. She knew it was a sin, that she should say no. She knew she should make excuses not to meet with him, that she should refuse to touch him, or let him touch her, that she should scream or run or tell someone, anyone, about what was going on. She knew that right now, she didn't want to have sex with him.

Grace knew all of this, but she also knew that she liked Father Murphy liking her, that he gave her special attention and regular gifts and treats. She liked being told she was beautiful, being touched and caressed and kissed, sometimes, no matter how bad she felt afterward. She knew that she would miss all that, if she said no. She knew she might be blamed, if she were to tell. And she knew that when it came down to it, she had no idea how to stop him. She had no idea how to say no.

And what if she did say no, and he just laughed and did whatever he wanted anyway? Grace would rather pretend she had a choice then to realize that there was none, that even her best efforts made no difference.

As she removed her clothing her hands shook, but her gaze was steady, almost sure. And when Father Murphy pulled her to him, breathing raspy with anticipation, Grace fixed her eyes on the crucifix straight ahead of her. Every time, even now, she knew, Jesus was watching.

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Grace dreamed that night of lakes of fire and skies of smoke, lapping at her ankles, scorching her hands and face as she wind whipped her hair around her face. All around her a dark voice boomed, and she knew it was too late. She was in hell.

She woke up sobbing, both her sisters staring at her, aroused from sleep by her thrashing form, her choked cries. When Paige tried to hug her and Mary Frances stroked her hair, asking her what she had dreamed, what was wrong, all Grace could do was push their hands away, telling them nothing. Nothing.

She hid her Bible in the back of her closet, the rosary beads inside a sock in her dresser drawer. She no longer tried to talk to God. It was clear that he didn't listen.

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Time passed; Grace grew in body and in mind, and with each passing lesson her need for Father Murphy grew fainter as her hatred of him grew. Time stretched longer between their lessons now, and she knew soon they would stop. She had noticed that he no longer smiled in quite the same way when she came to him anymore, that his touch was briefer and less familiar, that he asked her to stay for lesser amounts of time. He didn't talk to her as much or as nicely as before, with less reassurance in touch and tone, and he no longer wanted her to linger in undressed states when the lesson was finished. He seemed hurried for it to be done, to be over with, and sometimes, he scarcely seemed to look at Grace at all.

She knew it was because of her. She was changing, her body beginning to mature, and it was no longer as special to him as it had once been. She was gaining weight, developing breasts, and Father Murphy was loathe to see this, let alone touch her during this. She was glad for it, for Grace's thinking was changing too, and she prayed for the day he would cast her aside for good. It did not occur to her that she herself could stop him. Not yet. Not then.

Grace got her period a few months after she turned twelve years old. She was pleased beyond the reasons of most girls; she was happy for this milestone not because it was evidence of her maturity or a step closer to making her a woman, but because she would almost bet that it would be the final straw for Father Murphy to end their lessons for good.

And she was right. Grace began their next lesson by blurting out, before he had even moved to touch her, the evidence of her new bodily maturity, citing it as her reason for being unable to participate in the day's lesson. She had watched with triumphant satisfaction as Father Murphy's face stiffened, as his hand retracted swiftly to his side, and he seemed suddenly unable to look her in the eye. When he carefully informed her that she had thoroughly learned all lessons he had to teach her and would need no more instruction, Grace had walked out of the office grinning, feeling as light and free as air. She only wondered why she had not said the same months, even years ago.

It had never occurred to her, in the three years that Father Murphy had given her "lessons," that she might not be the only one, that perhaps she wasn't as unique and special to him as he claimed. Mary Frances had been older, when he first appeared, too old to escape his interest; Grace knew that her friend Rhetta did not receive the same lessons that she did either, and that was enough to validate this belief. All Grace could think was of her own relief at escaping him and his closed office door, the eerie feeling of the gaze of Jesus overseeing each and every one of her lessons and judging her in her sin.

But slowly she began to notice the way Father Murphy watched other girls in choir practice and church plays, the way he smiled at them and patted their shoulders, took their hands or touched their heads. She noticed, and her cheeks burned with worry and anger…and then, one night, she noticed the new book on her sister Paige's half of their bureau drawer. It was a leatherbound Bible…a Bible with Paige's name engraved on the cover. A Bible just like Grace's.

Heart racing, palms sweating, mouth dry with dread, Grace had turned to Paige in barely controlled panic, realizing then that her sister was now nine years old…the same age as Grace, when her lessons had began.

"Where'd you get that Bible, Paige?" she asked her as casually as she could, and the younger girl had smiled, proud to show off her new possession.

"Father Murphy gave it to me. Isn't it nice, Grace? It's just like yours, my name is on it. He says he'll start giving me lessons now like he used to give you, starting next week."

Grace could only stare at her, feeling her face pale, her insides quiver, as her hands slowly balled into fists at her sides. Right then and there she made a plan; it was impulsive, it was rash, and perhaps it was impractical. But the moment it entered her mind she knew it was exactly what needed to happen.

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It was not difficult to walk to church after school let out the next day. The Hanadarkos had chosen the church mainly because it was located only a couple of blocks from their home, the closest Catholic church in their area. It was also not difficult to find Father Murphy in his office, to step inside, close the door behind herself, and to sidle up close to him, looking him in the eye. And when Father Murphy appeared confused, speaking Grace's name in a questioning tone, it was difficult at all to say with total sincerity what was a complete and outrageous lie.

"I miss you, Father Murphy. Can't we have one last lesson…a sort of review? Just one more before we stop forever?"

It was easy, when he began to protest, to change his mind with soft, pleading words and gentle caresses, with soft whispers and helpless looks. It was easy to suppress disgust and rage for the moment when his hand slipped over her side, finally pulling her close into an embrace. It was easy to let him part her lips with his, to kiss her deeply as he so often had before.

But the easiest of all was for Grace to bite down on his tongue as hard as she could until she felt veins burst and muscles tear, until hot blood filled her mouth and flowed down both their chins. It was just as easy to shove Father Murphy away so he collapsed onto the floor with anguished choking sounds in his throat, to stand over him with nothing but pleasure as she spoke her final words to him.

"Go to hell."

As Grace walked out of the office, she was aware for the last time of the eyes of Jesus on her back; she knew that she too was undoubtedly not heading for heaven. Somehow though, she could no longer bring herself to care.

The end

"I'm not Jesus" by Apocalyptica

Dirty little secret  
Dirty little lies  
Say your prayers  
And comb your hair  
Save your soul tonight

Drift among the faithful  
Bury your desires  
Aborations fill your head  
You need a place to hide  
And I am

Do you remember me?  
The kid I used to be  
Do you remember me?

When your world comes  
Crashing down I want to relive  
(Good God he's looking down on me)  
I'm not Jesus, Jesus wasn't there  
You confess it all away but it's only shit to me  
(Good god he's looking down on me)  
I'm not Jesus I will not forgive

No I won't  
No I won't

I thought you were a good man  
I thought you talked to god  
You hippocratic, messianic  
Child abusing, turn satanic

Do you remember me?  
Do you remember me?  
The kid I used to be  
Do you remember?

Do you remember?

When your whole world comes undone  
Let me be the one to say  
I'm not Jesus you can't run away  
And the innocence you spoiled

Found a way to live  
(Good God he's looking down on me)  
I'm not Jesus I will not forgive

I will not forgive


End file.
